


The Scent of You

by MsThunderFrost



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alpha Jaskier | Dandelion, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Infidelity, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bites, Misunderstandings, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Power Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Scenting, Service Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Water Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22297882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/pseuds/MsThunderFrost
Summary: “You’re mad at me.” Geralt says, and while it’s not so much a question as a statement of the obvious, Jaskier can hear the soft ‘why’ that remains unspoken as he huddles on the very edge of the bedroll, his back to the Witcher. The few inches between them could well have been a mile, and though he hides it well, Jaskier can feel a slight twist low in his belly that belies an anxiousness that is not his own.“You’re mistaken.” His tone is not necessarily convincing, but he finds it draining to muster the energy to care. He makes no effort to turn and meet those sinfully beautiful, molten amber eyes.”I’m… just tired, that’s all.”“Tired.” The Witcher repeats. Jaskier hears the soft rustle of movement behind him, and feels the blanket shift ever so slightly as the valley between them transforms into a canyon. He wonders if Geralt intends to leave, if he should try to stop him. And then he catches a whiff of the White Wolf’s scent and remembers why they’re in this predicament in the first place.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 524





	The Scent of You

“You’re mad at me.” Geralt says, and while it’s not so much a  _ question _ as a statement of the obvious, Jaskier can hear the soft ‘why’ that remains unspoken as he huddles on the very edge of the bedroll, his back to the Witcher. The few inches between them could well have been a mile, and though he hides it well, Jaskier can feel a slight  _ twist _ low in his belly that belies an anxiousness that is not his own. 

“You’re mistaken.” His tone is not necessarily convincing, but he finds it  _ draining _ to muster the energy to  _ care _ . He makes no effort to turn and meet those sinfully beautiful, molten amber eyes.”I’m… just tired, that’s all.”

“Tired.” The Witcher repeats. Jaskier hears the soft rustle of movement behind him, and feels the blanket shift ever so slightly as the valley between them transforms into a canyon. He wonders if Geralt intends to leave, if he should try to stop him. And then he catches a whiff of the White Wolf’s scent and remembers  _ why _ they’re in this predicament in the first place. 

“Yeah.” He squeezes his eyes shut tight enough that bright, pinbursts of color explode behind his eyelids and hopes… for the first time ever, really… that Geralt will be his usual anti-social self and let the matter  _ drop _ . He  _ is _ tired, in more ways than one, and in no mood to weather the fight that is sure to follow.

“Hmm…” the blanket shifts again, and then Geralt’s heat is  _ gone _ . Tears sting at his eyes, and it takes a  _ resounding _ level of self-restraint to keep from turning and calling out to him in the dark —he tells himself that it’s better this way.

Geralt reeks of  _ other _ , and Jaskier is certain that he can  _ feel _ his heart breaking. 

The Witcher has always sown his wild oats where he may, and Jaskier had dedicated many an hour convincing himself that he didn’t care. Geralt was grown, he could do as he pleased—Jaskier was content to sit on the sidelines and admire the fair-headed omega from afar, to bask in the heat that radiated off of his Witcher’s herculean frame as he rescued him from the monster of the week, all the while knowing that, come nightfall, he’d be sharing that heat with someone else. It turned out that man was much less fearful of a Witcher when he stood bare before them, cock swollen and leaking, thick thighs damp with slick…

He’d mistakenly thought, once they’d mated, Geralt would be  _ his _ . That he would stop looking at pretty young maidens and dashing rogues with those sorrowful amber eyes and preaching his godsdamned philosophy on life—because apparently, that’s what amounted to flirting nowadays… who knew?—and ‘tall, dark, and handsome—ing’ them out of their pants. Fuck, did that even make sense? Probably not. It’s just… If they’re operating under such vastly different definitions of what ‘mated’ means, then they should probably have a talk. Right after the ground stops feeling like the ground is falling out from underneath him. 

When he blinks his eyes open, he finds Geralt seated cross-legged in front of him, his arm stretched out over the omega’s lap as he gingerly massages… is that his lavender oil?... into his hand. His entire body feels  _ soft _ and  _ heavy _ , and he has no doubt that, if he were to close his eyes, he’d be able to drift off into his dreamland once more without hesitation. But it’s too late. Geralt has already noticed that he’s stirred and, though Geralt has all of three different facial expressions, he’s traveled with him long enough to read the nigh-invisible quirk of his lips and the little furrow between his brows as concern. Geralt’s lips are moving, and it takes a moment for his sleep-logged brain to process that the other is speaking to  _ him _ .

“...I didn’t mean to wake you. I just… this oil— _ lavender _ —it’s supposed to help with sleeping, right?” He says, and Jaskier’s heart breaks a little bit more, his inner-alpha screaming for him to stamp out the scent of  _ other _ as Geralt’s large, calloused hands dance over his skin… “And you said that you were tired…”

“Tired. Yes.” Oh, how wonderfully  _ eloquent _ . He stares blankly at Geralt and waits for him to say something,  _ anything _ to prevent him from blurting out the words that linger heavy on the tip of his tongue…

Geralt’s strong fingers drag over the fine bones in Jaskier’s wrist as he mumbles, “It seemed to help.” He seems to be waiting for the unsettlingly familiar look of revulsion that he’d seen so many,  _ too _ many, times before to come over Jaskier’s face, waiting for the bard to yank his hand back and order him to  _ stop _ . 

Instead, he asks in a broken voice that sounds much to  _ small _ to be his, “Why did you cheat on me?”

Geralt’s fingers still as he stares at him, his face an expressionless mask as he attempts to comprehend what it is the alpha just said. And then, amber eyes widen marginally. “Fuck.” The Witcher releases a long-suffering sigh, before fixing Jaskier with a knowing, half-hearted glare. “Is  _ that _ what you’re upset about?”

“I-Is that…?” Jaskier splutters, dragging himself upright and fixing Geralt with the nastiest glare he can muster—which, admittedly, just serves to make him look constipated, but that certainly isn’t about to stop him. “You climbed into  _ our _ bedroll, practically  _ drenched _ in another alpha’s scent—,”

His omega offers himself a cursory sniff, nose wrinkling in disgust, “I didn’t think that the scent would be powerful enough for you to pick it up.” 

“Look, I—I get it, okay? Just… spare me the details and tell me—,”

“You don’t understand anything.” Geralt cuts him off, his voice soft, yet firm. “I didn’t cheat on you. I slept—,” Jaskier flinches, “in a make-shift bed in some nobleman’s cellar. I’d been contracted to kill a wraith who’d been tormenting the family for weeks and had damn-near killed the nobleman’s firstborn son…”

Geralt had to admit, the nobleman had taken great care to look after his comforts, even as Geralt stressed, time and again, that he’d much rather pass the night in an inn. Unfortunately, as wraiths had a tendency to stick close to the place of their death, it didn’t make sense for him to stray too far from the premises. The cellar had been a hard-fought compromise, as he’d been… incredibly uncomfortable at the prospect of spending the night in one of the lavishly decorated guest bedrooms. Unfortunately, that meant that they’d had to construct him a make-shift bed of furs and linens that reeked of  _ other alpha _ . He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, considering that they spent so much of their travels in inn bedrolls that stank of alpha, beta, and omega alike, and besides, once he’d taken a bath in wraith guts, he didn’t think it was possible to smell  _ anything _ on him, save for the putridness of  _ death _ .

Apparently, he’d been mistaken. But, in his defense, he hadn’t thought that Jaskier would immediately assume that he’d  _ cheated _ . Given the bard’s love of  _ talking _ , he would’ve thought that he’d at  _ least _ try to  _ talk _ with him about it before jumping to any wild conclusions… instead, he’d spent most of the day silently suffering inside his own head, keeping his distance and meeting each one of Geralt’s increasingly less subtle feelers with the same two words: “I’m tired.” And while Geralt may not have been the most socially graceful of individuals, he’d known his mate long enough to know that tired did not mean  _ tired _ . 

But he’d also known that, for the world of differences between them, there were more similarities between himself and the lovely bard than first meet the eye. He knew that, should he push the matter, Jaskier would do one of two things: either he’d continue to deny that anything was wrong and withdraw even further into his own personal hell, or he’d lash out about every little stupid thing that Geralt has ever done that has gotten under his skin, even in the most inconsequential of ways—and perhaps, somewhere along the line, give voice to what it is that is  _ truly _ bothering him; but perhaps not. All things considered, it was much easier to wait for Jaskier to confess on his own. 

Jaskier stares at him, mouth agape, and Geralt has half a mind to make a quip about catching flies. But then he catches the unmistakable tang of  _ salt _ in the air and he knows before he hears the bard’s breath hitch that he’s crying and fuck… Geralt just stares at him dumbly, at an utter loss for what to do. He’s pretty sure that, if anyone should be upset, it should be  _ him _ , but if anything, he’s… mildly annoyed?... that he didn’t notice that the other alpha’s scent would be so pungent as to set his alpha on-edge. 

“Y-You’re usually so stingy with the details.” Jaskier sniffles, and fuck if it isn’t one of the most disgusting sounds the Witcher has ever heard, but his heart melts as those full, pouty lips worble and the scent of anger and distress that lingered thick in the air begins to dissipate.

“You’re usually less of an idiot.” Geralt is expecting the not-so-gentle shove that follows, but still allows Jaskier to push him down to the ground, the alpha’s weight settling comfortably over his lap. 

His face scrunches up adorably, “I’m sorry—,” whatever else he was going to say is swallowed by the press of Geralt’s lips to his, and he bends forward to tangle his fingers in wild silver-white hair. He breaks the kiss all-too-soon, a frown tugging on the corners of his lips, “You don’t smell like me.” He’s  _ not _ whining. He’s  _ definitely _ not whining.

Fuck it, he’s whining. 

“Still jealous?” He doesn’t need to ask, but he finds the dark blush that spreads over Jaskier’s cheeks to be infinitely amusing anyhow. “You know… This is one problem with a remarkably  _ simple _ solution.”

“You could take a bath.” Jaskier mumbles as he rubs his cheek over their bonding site, teeth grazing over the heavily scarred skin, his breath hitching as he struggles to resist the urge to  _ chomp down _ .

“I could also buck you so hard I send you catapulting into next week.” Jaskier stills, swallowing hard. He knew that Geralt would never  _ seriously _ hurt him, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s always  _ gentle _ . Having an omega that’s so… well,  _ large _ , would be off-putting to many alphas… but Jaskier has found that there are few things more arousing than the knowledge that Geralt could snap him in half like a twig. Geralt blinks, “...You’re hard.”

Jaskier draws in a long, shuddering breath, “Wonderfully astute observation, dear Witcher.”

“Fuck,” thick, calloused fingers dig into the grooves of Jaskier’s hips, dragging his cloth-covered length over Geralt’s stirring cock in one slow, smooth stroke. 

“That is also an option, yes.” The bard blathers semi-coherently. 

“I thought I needed to take a bath.” Geralt snarks, and fuck if the first thing out of Jaskier’s mouth isn’t:

“I can bathe you.”

It takes a moment for both Geralt and Jaskier to process what the hell Jaskier just said. A dark blush slowly creeps across his cheeks as he scrambles to find a way to make it sound as though he  _ hadn’t _ just propositioned his mate after spending the majority of the day thinking that he had cheated on him… Geralt grumbles something about the alpha thinking too loud, before reaching up to drag him down into another messy kiss that left the bard breathless, his pillow-soft lips swollen and bruised. The seat of his trousers grow damp with slick as he smells the alpha’s burgeoning arousal and suddenly, Jaskier’s world melts into a blur of color as he’s hoisted into the air and tossed haphazardly over the omega’s shoulder. 

“If you are to bathe me,” he says, enjoying the full-body shiver that wracks Jaskier’s lithe frame as he catches a whiff of the honey-sweet scent of his omega’s slick, “I expect you to be  _ most _ thorough.”

Jaskier licks his lips, before taking a playful nip at the omega’s toned buttocks. “With pleasure.”


End file.
